As soon as she got home, Ruolin kicked off her shoes, dropped her bag by the side of the couch, and curled up against one of the cushions. With a sigh, she reached for her phone and tapped on her mom's name.
The screen rang twice before it connected.
The familiar image of her mother's living room came into view — warm light, floral curtains, and her mom already sitting in her usual spot with a mug in hand.
"Ah, finally! I thought you forgot about your parents," her mom teased, smiling upon seeing her daughter's face.
"Ma!" Ruolin beamed, tucking her hair behind her ear. "How could I? I've just been… a little busy."
Just then, her dad's voice echoed faintly in the background. "Who is it?"
Her mom turned the phone slightly, showing the older man's face, who squinted his eyes to look at the screen properly even though he's wearing glasses. "Your daughter. Say hi."
Ruolin waved at the screen. "Hi, Baba. You look thinner, have you been skipping breakfast again?"
Her dad huffed, but there was a hint of a smile. "Nonsense. Your mom feeds me too much, I might burst."
They all laughed.
Her mom leaned a little closer to the screen. "So, when are you coming home?"
Ruolin let out a dramatic sigh, flopping back into the couch. "You say that like it's easy. My holidays are all squeezed and half gone before they even start. Journalism life, Ma."
Her mom clicked her tongue. "I told you to pick something stable. Government job. Civil service."
Ruolin grinned. "Too late. The ink's already spilled."
They chuckled again, the banter easy.
For a moment, she hesitated. Her fingers toyed with the edge of the throw pillow. Her throat tightened just a little as she considered. Maybe now was the time to tell them — About the fatigue, the diagnosis, the clinic visits.
But then her mom sipped her tea and said, "You look pale. Are you eating properly?"
Startled, Ruolin smiled quickly, brushing the thought aside.
"I miss you guys," she said instead. "That's all, and I've just got back from work so I'm tired," she sighed dramatically.
"Is Didi still glued to his phone 24/7?"
Her dad groaned. "That boy's soul has left his body and entered the mobile realm."
"I should uninstall all the games from his phone when he's asleep," her mom sighed.
Ruolin laughed. "He's gonna wage war on you if you do that, Ma."
"I fed him, raised him, stayed up all night when he had a fever. And now? Now I call his name three times before he even blinks. Last week, he told me he couldn't pause the game. What kind of excuse is that?"
Her dad snorted in the background. "To be fair, you really can't pause online games."
Her mom gave him a look off-camera. "You're not helping."
Ruolin giggled behind her hand. "Let him be, Ma. He's just being a teenage boy. He'll come around."
"Yeah, yeah. Just don't let you be the next one glued to your phone," her mom grumbled.
"I'm not!" Ruolin said, offended. "I'm talking to you, aren't I?"
"Hmph. If I catch you skipping meals because of work, I'll fly over there myself."
Ruolin held up both hands in surrender. "Noted. Message received loud and clear."
"And that cardigan you're always wearing, it's already so old. Don't you have anything else to wear? Your aunt sent you a dress for New Year two years ago, and I know you never wore it."
Ruolin groaned dramatically. "Ma, you're doing the thing again—"
"Of course I am. I'm your mother. That's my job."
Her dad chuckled from the side. "Just let her live a little."
"I'm letting her. I'm just saying, if she dressed better and slept on time, she wouldn't look like a wilted scallion every other video call."
"Ma!"
Her mom smirked. "I'm kidding, you're a pretty scallion."
Ruolin mock-sulked with a small hmph, before a soft giggle slipped out. "Anyway, tell Didi to text me once in a while. Or at least send me memes. I accept emotional support in the form of bad humor."
Her mom laughed. "He'll say he's busy with school. But he'll smile if I tell him you asked."
"Good. I'll pretend I'm the cool older sister," Ruolin said, resting her chin on her knee.
"You are the cool older sister," her dad replied.
Ruolin's eyes softened, warmth blooming in her chest.
They went on chatting — about the garden her mom had just re-planted, about the neighbor's cat that kept sneaking in, about her dad's attempts at learning how to use smart home devices — and for a while, everything felt like the same, comfortable home she left behind.
When the call ended, she stared at the dark screen for a moment longer than necessary. Still smiling, but just a little quieter now.
~×~
In the morning, the newsroom was as lively as ever.
Phones ringing. Keyboards clacking. Screens flickering with headlines chasing the pulse of the city. Laughter echoed near the editing bay, someone swearing softly at a last-minute revision. Life went on, and Sun Ruolin moved through it like a ripple in still water — unnoticed, but present.
She had arrived early, as usual. Sat her desk, set down her tea, and turned on her monitor. She smiled at the morning greetings, mock-surprised when Qiao Hui sneak to startle her from behind for the 100th times, and helped her co-workers when they ask.
Nothing had changed.
Except for the quiet truth pressed gently against her chest like a folded letter she hadn't yet opened.
Heart failure.
She hadn't told anyone.
Not because she didn't trust them. But because saying it out loud felt like giving it shape — like confirming it was real. And she wasn't ready for that.
"Ruolin!" Xiaoyu dropped into the seat beside her, a puff of citrus-scented perfume following her. "Hey, want to join us for lunch later? I heard the new café down the street has barley soup on special."
Ruolin looked up and smiled. "Sounds nice."
"You okay?" Xiaoyu tilted her head. "You look pale again."
Ruolin laughed, light as ever. "Really? Maybe I need more blush."
"You need sleep," Xiaoyu muttered. "Don't make me drag you to the clinic again."
At the word clinic, something in Ruolin's smile faltered — so quick, even Xiaoyu didn't catch it.
"Ah, by the way, did the doctor say anything about your condition?" Xiaoyu asked, her voice lowering just a little — not too serious, not too casual.
Ruolin blinked. Her fingers paused mid-type on the keyboard. Then she exhaled through her nose, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of her lips.
"He said I should stop eating instant noodles for dinner," she replied with a dramatic sigh. "Something about sodium and me being a 'walking salt shaker.'"
Xiaoyu snorted. "That's not a diagnosis, that's common sense."
"Exactly. So I'm considering a second opinion. Preferably one who approves of spicy cup noodles and emotional support coffee."
Xiaoyu narrowed her eyes, unconvinced. "You sure that's all he said?"
Ruolin turned back to her screen, fingers moving again as if nothing had paused at all. "He said I should rest more. Stop working overtime and drink a lot of water. That's it. Nothing scary."
A beat passed. Then she added, light and teasing, "Anyway, don't you have a date with the copy machine that keeps eating your drafts?"
That did the trick. Xiaoyu groaned loudly, flopping across the desk in defeat. "That demon is personally out to destroy me."
Ruolin smiled, just a little. The moment passed like mist caught in morning sun. Her secret remained folded and quiet — tucked away, for now. And outside the window, the day continued.
She kept herself busy.
Rewrote her health column draft. Double-checked sources. Reached out for interview quotes. When she stood, she made sure her steps were measured. When she breathed, she did it as if she weren't noticing the tightness blooming gently in her lungs — that invisible thread tightening every time she climbed a stair too fast or laughed too hard.
The symptoms were there now. Or maybe… they had always been. But now, they had names. They had meaning. And they whispered to her when no one else could hear.
~×~
During lunch break, she sat with the others at the new café Xiaoyu talk about. She ate slowly, smiled often, and laughed when someone pulled out the worst dad joke she'd ever heard.
But beneath the laughter, she kept her hands in her lap — clenched lightly. Because she didn't want anyone to ask. Because she didn't know how to answer.
"I'm fine."
"Just tired."
"No, really. It's nothing."
How many more times could she say it before her voice cracked?
That evening, when the lights dimmed in the office and the air turned soft with the scent of paper and tired ambition, she finally allowed herself a pause.
She stared out the window at the city — blurred with gold and gray. Below, people hurried to subways. Somewhere, someone was cooking dinner. Somewhere, a life was beginning. Somewhere, another was ending.
She placed her palm gently over her chest. Felt the faint rhythm. Still beating. Still hers.
"I'll tell them," she whispered. "Just… not yet."
Let them laugh a little longer. Let them worry about deadlines instead of hospital bills. Let the sun rise one more day without the heaviness of sympathy.
She picked up her pen. Opened her notebook.
"The weight of an illness isn't always in the body. Sometimes, it's in the silence we carry so others won't have to."